


Sometimes

by ideal_girl (trainwreckdress)



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-10
Updated: 2004-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-02 19:43:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trainwreckdress/pseuds/ideal_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Colin thinks he's a fucking superhero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes

Sometimes, Colin thinks he’s Spider-Man. Feels the wassit called? Spidey-sense? Yeah, feels those waves of energy buzzing through his fingertips, warning him of danger, a little thought bubble suspended above his head, with exclamation points everywhere. In his case, though, danger isn’t in the form of that cunt Willy Defoe in a plastic mask or polystyrene buildings crashing round his head – it’s empty pint glasses and bloody annoying photographers who can’t seem to get enough evidence of his numerous fuck ups.

He’s not going to lie he loves the attention, who wouldn’t? Well, maybe that Crowe fellow – he seems to hate it, only God knows why. Colin’s loved it since he was a kid, playing decent roles in crappy theaters to lukewarm audiences of faceless _ladies and gentleman,_ waiting for his big break. And it came, oh it _came,_ in the form of a man who didn’t stop staring when Colin blushed, stammered, “I love your work," like an idiot kid. First and last time he was starstruck, but it still fucks with him to think about it, makes his cheeks burn like he's just shot bad tequila.

Kevin didn’t stop staring for a long time, and Colin probably should’ve done something about that, but what can you do? Colin respected the strange intensity of the older man, delighted in Kevin’s crooked smiles when he hit his mark and the harsh words when he flubbed it up. Bit by bit, Kevin built him up, offered him dreams of Hollywood and fame, told him that he wasn’t just going to be “The Next Big Thing” – he was going to be better than that, bigger that that, and not just the _next_ one, he was going to be _the_ one. The one that stuck around, that didn’t hit the It List one year to drop off the face of the earth in the next. 

Sometimes, Colin thinks Kevin was a little bit crazy – _is_ a little bit crazy. They may not talk or fuck anymore, but they still exchange holiday cards, head out for slugs of Scotch when they happen to be in the same city at the same time. Kevin still stares, though, just not all the time. And Colin still smiles, it’s just with more teeth now. Kevin’s a bit tired of it all, so when they tumble through doorways of posh hotels, hanging off each others shoulders and smelling like expensive liquor, Colin shoves him into an empty bed and orders him to sleep it off.

*

Sometimes, Colin thinks he’s Superman. Like he can fly. He may be Irish, but he’s ready to fight for truth, justice, and the American Way. Fuck, his fortune has come from entertaining American audiences, selling Americans tickets to American movie theaters and people buying action figures made up in his likeness. America was built on the back of the Irishman, and Colin's just doing his part there. He’s all for the American Way, even if it means he’s got to pay taxes that would make his Labour-loving Da need to step outside for some air. He’s for it all because even though Americans don’t have the best beer or the best boys, they’ve got the best drugs and the best women.

He’s not going to lie, he loves that he pays more in taxes in one year than his parents made in a lifetime. He’d yearned for the moment when he could say fuck all and whisk his mother off on a luxury vacation, buy her jewels and robes and _stuff,_ pay her back for all the hardship he visited on her when he was an ungrateful bastard. And he does it, takes her all over the place until she tells him he’s got to get himself a nice lass or people are going to start talking, right? He tells her he _wants_ people to talk and she laughs, pats him on the cheek, orders another round, and sends him off to find himself a little princess.

So, a few months and a movie later, when he finds himself in the VIP room of some crap club he can’t even be bothered to name doing lines of coke opposite of Britney Spears, he sips at a pint of Guinness he doesn’t remember ordering and invites her back to his room. She accepts - after a moment of hesitation that he might have imagined (the coke is good, after all, as it came straight from the pocket of her too-tight jeans) - and they run out of the club, dodging Escalades and police cars, waving to squealing tourists and flipping off the paparazzi. 

Sometimes he thinks Britney might just be a bit daft – no, wait, she’s a fucking _idiot._ Girl’s got a body that’s nice without being slight, thick enough to hold onto while still being small enough to keep in line, but she’s just not _there._ The coke might have something to do with it, but Colin’s no fool. He’s been her age, remembers the lines he did off ladies’ chests and men’s stomachs, pills and tabs dissolving under his tongue, waking up realizing that he didn't know the name of anyone piled in the bed with him. No, he decides she’s just thick, so when he loses her at some pub halfway through the night, he doesn’t think twice about it. She’s got that bodyguard after all, and he’s had enough pictures taken tonight, thanyaverrymuuch.

*

Sometimes Colin thinks he's Batman. Like he's hiding in plain sight. Every role is a cover, every woman he fucks is another girl he can't tell anything, because she's probably some crazy super villain. He pictures their sleeping bodies dressed in spandex or leather, women specializing in corporate espionage or some strange form of martial arts he can't even fucking pronounce. 

He's not going to lie. The dark bird, the one that looks like she could tie you up and spank the hell out of you, is the best. She sucks on your neck and leaves teeth marks that show up in the morning, yells up a storm, even when your family's in the next room sitting down for tea. She lets you finger her in crowded elevators and she sucks your dick in empty stairwells. But that gets harder the more the money flows in, the more posters his ugly mug's stuck up on.

So he tries to go for the good girls, tries really fucking hard, but they're boring as hell. He says fuck all and takes to the streets and the clubs and pubs and the sets, tracks down the girl who looks like she's been tied up a few times and knows how to scream. Well, most of the time. Angie, she was different, crazy, yeah, but also…calm. She brought _him_ home, tied _him_ up and not only taught _him_ how to scream, she taught him how to _like_ it. Love it, if you wanna be honest, but the whole thing went pear-shaped in record time. Angie had smiled, shooed him away with those impossibly long fingers, told him to take care of his baby and give her a ring when he's town, yeah?

Sometimes, Colin wonders if Angie's really as cool as she seems. Because who could be that fucking on, right? Like, all that crap she's dealt with, the crazy dad, the insane rumors – his bullshit ain't nothing compared to the stuff chasing her through the wires. But, she is, and it's probably little Maddy that does it, keeps her focused and connected and down to earth. So, he concentrates on James, squirming mass of arms and legs and drool and piss, nearly punches out Kim's cousin after he dares to pull out a pack of cigarettes in shouting distance from those still-forming lungs.

*

Sometimes Colin thinks he’s Daredevil – fuck that he played Bullseye in a movie he thought would’ve done better. See, thing is, he’s more Matt Murdock, if anything - Daredevil in disguise, y'know. Blinded by life _– oh, it's so fucking tragic, yeah? -_ fighting the good fight on dirty city streets and pristine red carpets, swimming through pools of journalists armed with paper and pen and recording device and all he’s got are his fuckin’ sunglasses.

Ah, right. He's not going to lie - it’s not like it’s life or death or something. It’s fuckin’ funny is what it is - the gossip, the rumors, the innuendo dredged up by reporters. His publicist clucks her tongue at the headlines spilled across the rags, his lawyers talk bollocks about suing someone’s pants off, Claudine tells him he's "a right bastard and did you know mum called again asking after you?" Colin just laughs, reminds them (and his mum) that it’s all shit, and what’s not shit is true, and then what can ya do? And he can handle it, most days, and the days he can’t, he remembers what his mother said, that he’s a nutter, and it’s safe as houses, yeah?

It’s especially safe when he queues up on the red carpet, waving and smiling at the fans, ignoring the cameras. Dom once pointed out to him how people – fans - vibrate, how they’re hot to the touch, all flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, fight or flight in repose, working hard to keep it together because they don’t want to be “that fan” who makes you get a bodyguard and run security checks on your paperboy. He reminds Colin to talk to the fans, to sooth them, put his hands on their hands, _gently,_ their arms, _gently gently,_ their shoulders, _you’ve got it._ “This is the highlight of their year, Colin,” Dom had said, earnest and vain all at once, making Colin laugh until he cried, or at least until he spilled his beer and demanded a fresh one.

Sometimes he thinks Dom’s too transparent, too accessible, just talks too fucking much – and that’s a lot coming from Colin. He knows he’s the master of over-sharing, airing his privates (laundry and bits) to the press and public more often than not. But he’s better prone to bouncing when he hits the pavement. Dom still has this edge to him, a fine angle between giving a shit and not, one that Colin wishes he didn't flaunt so fucking much, but it's who he is, and that's all there is to it. And it’s got nothing to do with tonguing blokes in public, telling raunchy riddles to late-night hosts, or grabbing your mate’s rear when sliding out of a limo – Colin's got that in spades, as well. It’s about sharing your hopes and dreams, giving them anything of substance – something Dom does with a drop of a hat. “That should be for you, and you alone,” Colin tells Dom, knocks it into his head with a half-filled pint of Guinness and three fingers of Scotch, but Dom doesn’t listen, never does. So, Colin pushes him against the wall of the men's lav of that not-so-crap pub down the road – the one that has old Stranglers tunes on the juke, yeah - drops to his knees and tells Dom to keep his gob shut for once.


End file.
